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The old oak tree that I used to admire from my youth collapsed in a storm, killing Mr. and Mrs. Jankowitz. They were an elderly couple who moved next door to my parents upon two decades ago.

We had little to do with one another. They were the types to garden, play classical music out their windows while sipping tea. They’d wave as we walked to our car, but weren’t much for small talk.

One day, I attempted to strike up a conversation with the wife. It was a chilly summer morning. There were tears in her eyes. She seemed to be shivering on a stone bench near the border of my parents’ property.

“You okay, there?” I asked.

Mrs. Jankowitz shrugged. “Life,” she mumbled.

“I hear that,” I replied, grabbing the fence like it was about to tumble over. “It can be rough.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“If you need to talk,” I started, but she interrupted me with a hand in the air.

“Talking isn’t necessary, Clive,” she said. How she knew my name surprised me. I never formally introduced myself to her. My parents neither, as far as I know. “Go back inside. Or go elsewhere. This will pass.”

That was last summer. I never saw her again after that.

The night of the storm, I stayed with my parents. They needed a strong man to watch over them. After years in the gym, perfecting the pull-up, I knew that if there was any major destruction, I could literally pull us out of the rubble.

Our house went untouched. The Jankowitz house, a complete disaster.

As a family, we might go to their funeral. We might be the only ones, for all I know.

Can’t say I’ll miss them, per se. But there was something about their artful silence that may never appear in that neighborhood again. Only time will tell.

I truly pondered the idea of getting a corporate job with benefits, 401K, vacation time. The whole damn works.

But as I spoke it out loud, “get a corporate job” vs. “build an exciting career as a fiction writer who can live anywhere he wants, makes up his own hours and meets fascinating people,” the first choice got me drooling.

Who in their right mind would want freedom? Name one single person who would turn down the opportunity of a grumpy manager who berates you in front of all your apathetic co-workers. God, I can’t wait to sign that W-4 and wait three months before I can get a paid vacation.

I’m gonna sweat bullets over two failing companies that wish to hire me. Fun thing is, I get to crate my dog all day. Clean up her poop after an eight-hour shift. Or find the right doggy daycare that has that funny stench of ammonia and the threat of a kind pup turning vicious against my little baby.

Can’t wait for the depression that will sink in after week one’s nervousness. I wonder what psychiatric medication will be tossed my way eventually. So much to look forward to.

Stupidly, I chose the life of freedom. What a dumbball I am. Write what I want, when I want. Grow spiritually, financially, emotionally. I’d rather rot in the corner during long, drawn-out, repetitive corporate meetings.

Oh well, guess I should shower now.

I’m shoving all my hard-earned inheritance into your pockets, just for the shit of it. Spend it any way you want. Or save it. Watch it grow. I expect nothing in return except a kind smile and extreme tolerance of who I might be.

That was my perspective for many years. I felt that I was such a nuisance that I’d give up all my inner freedom for anyone’s company. Didn’t matter how poorly they treated me, as long as they were by my side.

I could ring the bell of “what is the origin of this?” My family’s decades-long emotional and narcissistic abuse toward me? Growing up in the 1980s cocaine kingdom of Great Neck, NY? Never being in therapy at the ripe age of 3 1/2, shortly after being sexually abused by a twenty-one-year-old arsonist?

Probably all of the above and then some.

I’m honestly tired of rehashing these old wounds, but from what I know, complex PTSD isn’t a rainbows-and-unicorns type of healing. It’s grueling work. One has to learn to self-regulate… I truly had no idea what that meant until this year.

The repeated advice of “go out there and join a club, take a hike in the woods, think on the bright side” is a bunch of bullshit when your heart is racing a million beats a second because of a dream, or some stranger reminded you of someone abusive from the past.

Where I am right now is a far cry from take-all-my-money-just-so-you-can-tolerate-me. I’ve come to accept that I’d rather have no humans in my life if that means abuse, torture, and neglect are the payoff.

There are so many beautiful non-humans (dogs, cats, trees, gardens, crystals, fictional characters) that can fill the void. While I’m mingling with these magical creatures, I will still hold onto the hope that there are wonderful humans out there who want to be just as silly, loving, inspiring, and attentive as I feel all beings should be.

Folks, that’s where you’ll find me.

There was a trickle of blood. The tip of the blade punctured Merril’s neck. Had he not yelped when the sword was less than an inch away, there would have been no injury.

“My friend,” Merril cried, slowly raising his hands so he wouldn’t brush against the sword. “If you want me to leave, just tell me so, but please don’t hurt me anymore.”

I pulled the sword back a hair, giving him room to tend to the puncture wound.

“You’re a weirdo,” I said, immediately remembering how terrible my apologies can be. “Knocking on people’s doors in the middle of the night. What are you thinking?”

“It’s the wolf, my friend,” Merril sighed, pointing beyond the front door. “I thought it was someone’s puppy limping down the road. Didn’t take me long to realize it was a wolf pup, lost and injured. It came onto your property, collapsed on your porch, and here I am. Simple.”

“No, you’re creepy.” I raised the sword a few inches above his puncture wound. “You need to leave. I’ll wait for animal control.”

“But the wolf pup…” Merril protested.

“Assume it’ll be fine,” I interrupted, shuffling toward the front door, the sword still aimed at his neck.

When I opened the door, I looked down.

“The wolf pup…it’s gone.”

“What?” Merril shoved the sword aside and stood beside me.

We looked at one another in disbelief before walking outside together, like two old friends leaving a bar.

“It must have scampered off into the woods,” I said.

“I hope it’ll be okay,” Merril replied. He took a few deep breaths before hobbling over to his beat-up pickup truck at the end of the driveway.

“Please never come back,” I hollered.

Merril paused. He took a few steps toward me and said, “You just never know when our paths will cross again.”

He winked, climbed into his truck, started the tired engine, backed out, and drove away.

When animal control arrived, I explained that the wolf pup had wandered off. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I went back to bed.

---

During the nights that followed, I purposely woke in the middle of the night and stepped onto the porch, listening for any sign of the wolf pup.

Silence.

It was peaceful. Just me, a soft breeze, and the night sky.

Then I thought about Merril and his puncture wound. Did it heal? Would he ever come back? Should I apologize for raising a sword at him?

The questions stayed with me.

One morning, I’d had enough. I drove into town and stopped at the Chamber of Commerce to ask about Merril the plumber.

Nobody had ever heard of a plumber by that name.

I described him, but everyone looked at me as though I’d lost my mind.

With nothing left to investigate, I stopped at a greasy spoon diner for lunch.

The food rushed through me.

As I left the restroom, I noticed the kitchen door had been propped open just a crack.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I took three steps inside.

Something moved in the back.

A heavyset, balding man wearing a chef’s coat was scrubbing the griddle. He must have heard me because he turned around.

It was Merril.

A bandage wrapped around his neck.

“Sorry… I thought you were a plumber,” I almost said.

Instead, he grinned, gave me a thumbs-up, winked, and returned to scrubbing the griddle.

Whoever Merril was, I decided to put him out of my mind.

That proved nearly impossible.

Wherever I went, there he was.

Working as a bank teller.

A security guard.

A baker.

A gas station attendant.

He haunted my dreams.

Even when I was alone with my thoughts, his voice would suddenly take over.

I thought moving away and heading across the country would finally get rid of him.

Not the case.

It’s clear now that I have only one choice.

Time to befriend this creep.

If such a dreadful scratching sound had existed in my house before Merril’s arrival, I would’ve ripped my ears off long ago. Just when I thought the noise came from the kitchen, it seemed to bounce back to the den, then the foyer. I even climbed a ladder to the attic, where the damn sound seemed to originate next. Nothing.

The whole time I hunted down the source of the ghastly sound, Merril talked nonstop. He made a series of clicks and hisses. The man was mad and needed to be ejected from my home immediately.

It was unusually cold outside, and granted, he could’ve waited for animal control in his car, that is, if he had one. Then, as Merril produced another whooshing sound directly into my ear, it dawned on me that he could leave. Why wait? This was my house, after all. Maybe he had a plumbing job to get to.

“Merril,” I said, heading toward the front door and interrupting whatever crude, senseless nonsense spilled from his filthy lips. “I got it, really. It’s late, and there are some household chores I need to focus on.”

“But animal control!” Merril replied, acting as if I had gravely insulted him. “They’ll be here any moment. I do want to find out the result of this saga with the wolf.”

“I thought you’d say that,” I muttered under my breath. “Fine. How about you wait in the den? There’s an assortment of magazines and picture books. I’m sure you’ll find something to entertain yourself while I…”

The scratching sound came back even louder. This time it seemed to be directly below me.

“While you what? Jerk off?” Merril said, roaring with laughter.

Someone quicker on their feet might have said something along the lines of, “My dear Merril! How dare you! I take great offense to that. A grown man suggesting another grown man would touch himself.” Then I could have dragged Merril by his ear out the front door. “Never come back here again,” I could have hollered before slamming the door.

But no, I wasn’t that sophisticated. It was the middle of the night, and sleep called my name. I grabbed the sword, unsheathed it, and pointed it right at Merril’s neck.

Hi there! This is Eric speaking. I’ve pushed aside all my fictional characters for a brief moment to share some exciting news.

Back in 2021, I started working on a novel entitled The Sand Midgets’ Last Call. Life took over, mostly for the worst, forcing me to abandon all my hard work.

Then a quasi-miracle happened. I started feeling better. Imagine that. One day, you’re a victim of the worst sort of familial torture, and then months later, you find your freedom. You soar. That’s exactly what the tale of The Sand Midgets’ Last Call is about.

Anyhow, I revisited the manuscript, made some light edits, and published the tiny beast!

If you’d like to purchase it, here’s the Amazon link. It’s available in paperback and on Kindle (free if you have Kindle Unlimited).

There was a suspicious look in his eye, as though I intended to stab him with it. Or maybe he intended to use one on me.

“Years ago, I collected swords,” he said, rubbing his finger against the pommel. “Read all I could about medieval battles and sword-fighting techniques. But that was before I got all fat.” He then giggled, which quickly morphed into an uncontrollable cough.

“Let me get you some water, sir,” I said, rushing into the kitchen. There was only one clean, unused glass. The rest sat in the sink, caked over in grime. I filled that one clean glass with water and then raced back to the old man, where he was clutching the wall, one hand pounding his chest.

He grabbed the glass of water and chugged it.

“The name’s Merril,” he said once the coughing stopped.

“James,” I said, offering a hand.

Merril had quite the grip. He pulled me in and whispered, “Worst case, we stab the injured wolf with one of the swords. Am I right?”

“Well, Merril,” I said, chuckling as I wiggled out of his grip, “you did say animal control would be here any minute, correct?”

“Of course,” Merril sighed, wiping invisible particles off the legs of his oversized pants.

“Please, come in.” I led Merril into the den, away from the mess in the kitchen. There was enough light in the den for me to get a better glimpse of him. At one point, Merril must have had a long mustache, as he seemed to spend a great deal of time twirling something near his mouth. The front of his shirt had a rusty stain in the shape of an out-of-control octopus.

“The life of a plumber,” Merril said, looking around. “Get called at all hours of the day. Seems like most of my calls come after the sun goes down, especially when I’m sleeping.” He then leaned forward, examining me. There was a look of disgust in his eyes. “What is the awful sound?”

Shortly thereafter, I heard it too. It was a metallic scratching sound. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen sink.

“Excuse me,” I said, making my way to the kitchen.

A violent knock startled me at 3:30 a.m. This knock wasn’t coming from my front door. It was on the bedroom wall, almost as if someone knew the precise location of my mattress.

I bought this home three years ago to get away from people. Hadn’t invited a single person over since the move-in date. The closest neighbor is a mile up the road. For someone to be knocking on the bedroom wall seemed most unusual.

“Hello,” came the haggard voice. “I can hear you stirring.”

How in creation could someone hear me stirring? I could barely hear the sheets being kicked off me, having twisted themselves around my leg.

“Who are you?” I hollered through the wall. God, I was hoping this was a bad dream. The idea of seeing another human at 3:30 in the morning put me in a bad place.

“There’s an injured wolf on your porch. Can we use your phone?”

If there ever was a time to question my sanity, it was my behavior after hearing that sentence. An injured wolf on my porch? Why did I suddenly kick it into high gear after hearing about the injured wolf?

Secondly, can they use my phone? The owner of the haggard voice and another human? Or the haggard voice and the wolf?

Logic was off, but I seemingly didn’t care.

“Meet me on the porch,” I yelled back.

It was the owner of the haggard voice who caught my attention first. He was a very overweight man in his early seventies. The man was out of breath and petting the wolf.

That poor wolf couldn’t have been more than a few months old. I wanted to scoop it up and kiss it.

“You have the phone?” the old man asked.

“Yes, on the wall in the kitchen.”

I pointed the old man in that direction, but instead of assuring he made it there, I started blushing. What kind of young man in the twenty-first century would choose a home phone mounted on a wall rather than a cell phone? Someone who was once obsessed with those devices. Someone who fell in love with a “woman” only to learn it was some scam artist draining nearly $3,000.

The wolf groaned. I took a step back, but its puppy eyes seemed to beg me to step closer. Not worth the risk. It could have rabies. Then the wolf and I would be in two separate medical centers.

“Animal control should be here any moment,” the old man said, hovering in the doorway, huffing and puffing. “We shouldn’t touch the wolf. Just let it be.”

He then looked around, shivering.

“Let’s go inside,” I offered, not knowing whether this man was about to force my head into an oven or just wait peacefully for the arrival of animal control.

There’s a neighbor I’m stalking. The man came to my garden in the middle of the night and messed with the cinder block. Pissed all over the damn thing.

“Without a surveillance camera, Fred,” you might ask, “how do you know it’s him?”

All day yesterday, I painted golden glyphs on one of its sides. A meticulous task. My hand isn’t as steady as it used to be since the accident. Now and then, I get the tremors. It’s like I’m on a fast-moving train.

That monster of a neighbor walked past as I was laser-focused on this task. He snorted and made some other guttural sounds.

In that moment, I wanted to pin the bastard to the wall and say, “You fat shit, these glyphs will help my garden grow. It’s not like anyone will hire a sometimes cripple like me. Someone who bursts out in rage, fuming swear words for no goddamn reason. I need this garden to work. So either shut up or help me paint the glyphs.”

By the time I thought of the whole sentence, he was inside his home, most likely jerking off to 80s sitcoms.

That was weeks ago and nothing in my garden grew. I’m devastated. I followed all the directions. Watered it appropriately. Scrubbed the neighbor’s piss off the cinder block. Repainted the glyphs. Still nothing.

This neighbor will give me a portion of his food. Once he gets out of the supermarket with his perfectly greased back hair and ironed grey button-down shirt, I will toss a bag over his head and throw him into the trunk of my beat-up pickup. Once at my place, I will handcuff him to the radiator until he agrees to provide daily clean food rations. Should he object, he will live connected to the radiator permanently.